


Do Not Reconcile

by scarrow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Bedside Vigils, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Marriage, POV Dean Winchester, Religious Castiel (Supernatural), middle aged relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-28 01:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarrow/pseuds/scarrow
Summary: John Winchester had never been in Dean’s house before, and now he was dying in it.Dean wasn’t exactly ready to sit by his father’s bedside and cry, but he did hover outside the room to make sure it was all real.Dad had been brought home. The two concepts didn’t fit well together; for so long, home meant getting away from Dad.





	1. John

John Winchester had never been in Dean’s house before, and now he was dying in it.

Dean wasn’t exactly ready to sit by his father’s bedside and cry, but he did hover outside the room to make sure it was all real. John was there. Still breathing. Someone had changed him into pajamas. Someone had probably helped him take a shower. Guilt curled inside Dean’s stomach. He should have been there to help.

Then a blank haze washed over him, and Dean found himself back in the living room. His husband Cas was sitting on the couch, legs crossed and holding some paperwork, looking very much his therapist self ready to treat a patient. Hoping to get comfort rather than analysis, Dean snuggled up under Cas’ arm. Then he looked up at his brother Sam in the armchair and tried to catch up with the conversation they were having. 

“The Do Not Resuscitate is real and legal,” Sam informed him. “Dad hasn’t listed us as proxies to make medical decisions for him, or to even get to access his medical records. The best we can figure is that he likely had some recent incident, was revived at a hospital, and requested the DNR for next time.”

“I thought DNRs were only for people with chronic diseases,” Dean said. “I mean, other than alcoholism… or for really old people. Not men in their 60s.” 

“Dean, your father is 72,” Cas said. 

That couldn’t be right. Dean got distracted trying to remember what year his dad was born and subtract it from the present. “Either way. Still not old enough.” His voice cracked a little. Dean wondered if the hollow feeling in his chest was sadness. Cas squeezed him gently. 

Sam didn’t look sad. “Are you going to run off again?” he asked Dean. 

Dean shook his head and didn’t make eye contact. He felt like a misbehaving toddler. Time to be an adult again. “Cas, thank you for bringing Dad home. It’s real good of you. I should have been there.”

Cas kissed the top of Dean’s head, not really helping the disobedient kid feeling. “I’ve tried to bring John home for years… this was just the first time he couldn’t fight back.” 

Dean didn’t like that thought, and he dug his nails in his hands, dull pain he didn’t want to think about yet. He glanced upstairs. Dad had been brought home. The two concepts didn’t fit well together; for so long, home meant getting away from Dad. “Are the kids…”

“Everyone is at my house,” said Sam. “Becky’s supervising. I figured we should discuss this first. I don’t think we want this to be the kids’ only memory of their granddad.”

“And if he starts talking again, I don’t want them hearing the things he says,” Dean said harshly. Cas stroked his arm. 

“I feel the same about my kids,” said Sam. “Cas, are you on the same page?”

Castiel hummed quietly while he was thinking. “Yes for now, but I’d like to revisit the conversation depending on future circumstances. I don’t like taking choices away from the kids, especially our teenagers… and I think serious conversations on both sides could help… but I don’t want to pressure either of you.”

It was a real mystery to Dean why Cas didn’t hate John. Sure, not hating anyone was part of Cas’ religion, but normal people would make an exception for verbally abusive homophobic father-in-laws. 

“Cas, has Dad ever, uh,” Sam said, “ever said he wanted to meet the kids?” 

Cas was silent. Dean knew his husband hated to say anything bad about anyone, so he stepped in. “I was there for that one, Sammy. I offered once. Not to bring him home--” Dean glanced at Cas out of the corner of his eye-- “but meet up at McDonalds or something. Buy him lunch, like Cas does. Anyhow, all he did was make sure that none of the kids were biologically related to him. Sorta left it at that.” Dean decided not to mention John’s rhetorical questions about Sam’s choice to adopt kids with special needs, or Dean’s preference for teens with behavior problems. 

“I do try to give him little updates about their lives,” said Cas. “It’s difficult to discern if the information is appreciated or not.”

Sam sighed. “Okay. Any other personal decisions to make? Cas offered up the guest room indefinitely, but I want to look into alternative care as soon as we can.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said quickly. Of course it’s fine. Dad’s just lying there, not doing anything. Who would be intimidated by that? “I mean, if he isn’t going to the hospital, why waste the money sending him somewhere else?”

Sam scowled. “I don’t like it. But it’s your house.”

“I can research other options,” said Dean quickly.

“An extended sleepover until then is fine for the kids. Becky loves having them,” said Sam. Dean relaxed a little thinking about the kids being a safe distance from Dad, but still just a five minute walk for Dean to check in on them. 

“Should we hire a nurse?” said Cas. “Or hospice?”

“I was thinking hospice too,” said Sam. “And maybe they can give us insight if we need more intensive care.”

Dean started feeling hazy again. Maybe he could clear his head with some sleep. No, what he really wanted was to drink himself into unconsciousness. And, unfortunately, that desire came with a promise. 

“Cas?” The words felt like sludge in Dean’s throat. He turned his head and spoke softly, hoping Sam wouldn’t hear. “I wanna drink.”

Cas squeezed his hand. “Would you prefer to call your sponsor, or talk with me?” He was always 100% non-judgmental. It was aggravating. Also, Cas always loved giving choices, when Dean just wanted someone to tell him what to do. After a pause, Cas suggested, “How about we start with some orange juice and then go from there?” Dean felt his shoulders relax. Good god, he loved Cas. 

Sam stood up, sliding his laptop into his briefcase. “I’ll look at my caseload to see how many hours I could work from home to give you both a break. Becky can take turns too. You guys good for the night?”

Cas agreed as he and Dean stood up as well. Cas gave Sam a hug goodbye before walking toward the kitchen. 

Sam grabbed Dean’s arm before he could follow. “I assume this means you weren’t already drinking when you disappeared earlier?”

“What? No.” Dean wrenched his arm away. Weirdly, drinking hadn’t crossed his mind until now. “Just needed to drive. Get a minute to think.”

“Alright,” Sam said. He exhaled and dawdled by the door. “How often does Cas see Dad anyway?”

“Once a month,” said Dean. “More or less. The do-gooder squad goes out every other Saturday, but he only finds Dad half the time.”

Sam nodded. Dean couldn’t tell if the weird look on his face was guilt or just annoyance. “Text me if you need anything,” Sam said finally and let himself out. 

Dean joined Cas in the kitchen. “Hey, guess what,” he said brightly. “Sam and I are totally on the same page about Dad and he trusts me to make good decisions!”

Cas smiled tolerantly, and handed Dean his OJ. He leaned over the counter to say, “And how do you feel about these decisions?” 

Dean pulled up a barstool. The setting oddly reminded him of the situation he was trying to avoid, so he patted the stool next to him for Cas to join him. 

“I’m real sorry about running away. When you called, I was totally calm, right? I got into the car to come to you… and I just drove in the opposite direction. I don’t even know why.”

Cas nodded. “It’s okay. I know this is hard for you.”

“I guess Sam helped you out instead?”

“Yes. I was going to call 911 at first, but that’s when John was most coherent. He said no. It was very hard to refrain. I’m still worried whether or not I did the wrong thing.” 

Dean squeezed Cas’ hand back. 

“I suppose it was better to wait. The DNR would restrict them from doing much. And I’m not quite sure what’s wrong with him. He was sitting in the alley like he’d fallen, but I didn’t see any cuts or bruises. He wasn’t intoxicated. Or at least not much.”

Dean nodded. John was always at least low-level drunk.

“Sam helped me get him into my car. We should go back for the Impala when we get a chance.”

“I’ll rescue Baby!” exclaimed Dean, wanting to help with something that suited him more. “I’ll get an Uber to drop me off. Although, was she even running last time you saw her? Maybe we should call for a tow instead?” 

Cas shrugged. 

“I’ll call Bobby for a tow tomorrow,” Dean decided. He looked forward to borrowing some tools from his uncle as well. Talking about cars was safe ground. Something he knew how to handle, even if his beloved Baby was in truly bad shape. Maybe he should have Baby towed to Bobby’s salvage yard instead if she needed serious repairs. 

“Are you feeling a little better?” Cas asked. 

Dean nodded. “How about you?”

“I feel sad,” said Cas bluntly. “I don’t like the DNR. It feels… hopeless. It is not surprising to have something bad happen to John, given his situation, but I wish he wasn’t giving up. I’m having a hard time finding the good in this.”

“I like that you try,” said Dean. John Winchester hadn’t trained his boys for positive thinking, only for survival. Which, it seemed now, he wasn’t interested in anymore. But Dean felt emotionally armed with his orange juice and confessions, enough to go back upstairs. “I’m gonna check on Dad. Could you be the one to call Hospice? You can probably answer their questions better. Then let’s order a pizza?”

Cas affirmed, and Dean headed for the stairs. Beautiful stairs, that he’d stripped and restored himself. Stairs his kids ran up and down every day. He forgot to ask if his dad had been conscious when they’d arrived at the house. Could the two of them have managed to carry him upstairs? He should have been there to help. Dean exhaled slowly and reminded himself of Cas’ often repeated refrain to forgive himself.

Dean walked slowly through the hall. Then in the guest room. “Dad?”

John stirred and looked over. How long had it been? Maybe a year? No, worse. It was a year and a half ago, Christmas. Cas’ church had brought presents, and Dean even dressed as Santa for the kids. Only for the kids. If he’d happened to see Dad, fine, but he wasn’t going looking for him.

The evening light showed John’s lined skin and thinning hair. It was all white now. Maybe he really was 72. 

“Hey, Dad.”

He didn’t step closer. John mumbled. 

“Need something?” Dean asked. 

“Gotta use the can,” John rasped.

Dean walked over and offered a hand. John gently held it, but couldn’t seem to pull himself up. “Alright,” said Dean doubtfully. He placed a knee on the bed to brace himself, then tried to pull up his father under his armpits. John’s face flinched with pain. 

“Uh, how ‘bout we just sit you up for a second? I think I gotta get Cas to help,” Dean said. His dad looked thinner than Dean remembered, but he was still a big guy, too big for Dean to lift. How did nurses do it?

Dean thumped down the stairs two at a time (his kids weren’t here for positive role-modeling anyway) and hurried to tell Cas the situation. 

“I think we need to buy a bed pan,” Cas said. “And adult diapers. Probably some better pain killers. A walker? The nurses will know.”

“Didja get ahold of them?”

Cas shrugged. “They’ll send someone on Monday.”

“Oh.” Dean exhaled. “Two nights on our own, huh?” Cas looked sad, so Dean quickly changed the subject. “Make me a shopping list. Since I can’t get the car tonight, I can be errand boy anyway.”

Cas smiled at him, though perhaps it was just a smirk. “That leaves me with bathroom duty?

“Do you think we can both lift him to the toilet?”

“I’m not interested in moving him again. The first time was…” Cas shuddered.

“Plastic cup?” Dean suggested, thinking about the long road trips of his childhood. 

“…I suppose that would be acceptable.”

The cup worked, and John was awake enough to deal with it himself. Dean was sheepish; Cas calm. 

It was still unclear if John was aware of his surroundings beyond base body needs. Dean was itching to escape the house, and soon took off with the list (Cas had added ingredients for soup and plastic sheets).

They rolled John around enough to add the plastic sheets, helped him with the soup, and brushed his teeth. Cas offered to stay in the guest room with a cot. Dean argued that he’d done too much already. 

So Dean set up the cot for himself. That worked out fine until the early hours of the morning when John Winchester woke up for real. 

“Where am I?” he said gruffly and started struggling under the covers. 

Dean jumped up and laid a hand on his arm. “Dad, it’s me, it’s fine.”

John looked up with watery eyes. “Where am I?”

“My house, Dad. The guest room. Sam and Cas brought you here yesterday afternoon.” Talking seemed easier once Dean started, so he plowed forward. “It’s 3:00 am, Sunday, July 29th. Did you get hurt?” Dean’s voice warbled and broke.

“I’m fine.” John didn’t try to get up again. Dean wondered if he could, but a chill of fear stopped him from asking. 

“Do you want to go to a hospital?”

“No.”

Conversational enders all around. The only offer John accepted was the plastic cup, and he asked Dean to leave the room. This also reminded Dean they hadn’t gotten around to the adult diapers yet, and he wondered if his proud dad could possibly agree to that. 

Dean offered some hand sanitizer that Cas had thoughtfully left by the bed, then left his dad in peace to sleep again. 

He wondered if there was something important he ought to discuss with his dad. Talk him out of the DNR? Apologize for not spending more time with him? Demand an apology for not caring about his life?

Just thinking about it was exhausting. Dean felt tempted again by the itch to run away from the whole situation. But, Cas deserved a few hours of sleep. And there was YouTube and earbuds. 

* * *

Cas was up by 6:00 a.m. and woke Dean from where he’d fallen back asleep in the guest room chair. 

“Sorry, Babe, you looked uncomfortable,” Cas whispered. “Want to sleep in the bed?”

“No, once I’m awake, I’m awake.”

“You look terrible!” said Cas.

“It wouldn’t kill you to lie now and then.” Dean rubbed his face and tried to ready himself for the day. “We could call Sam or Becky to take a shift when you go to church, and I’ll nap then.”

“I don’t have to go to church,” said Cas, offering Dean a hand up. Dean rolled out of the chair, everything creaking painfully, and he pulled Cas in the hall and closed the door so they could quit whispering. Dean started walking toward the kitchen. 

“Not gonna ask everyone to pray for him?” Dean asked, with just the tiniest touch of sarcasm. It was too uncomfortable to think about how many of the church folk had met Dad on their Saturday volunteer days. 

Cas shrugged. It was not a shrug of indifference, in fact it looked like Cas was gearing up for some grade-A mother-henning. “I can ask for that, if you’d like. But I can stay; I don’t want you to feel alone. Also, since we don’t have a clear timeline on your father staying here, I think we need to schedule some time for you to have space away from John.”

“I mean, I’d already kind of scheduled my whole life away from Dad, right?”

“What?” said Cas blankly, tilting his head.

“Yesterday you said you wished you’d moved Dad here ‘years ago.’ But now you’re thoughtfully concerned about my space?” Dean said. Then he regretted saying it and wondered if he could blame it on the lack of morning coffee. 

Cas meanwhile froze at the top of the stairs. His lips got tight, and he seemed to swallow his angry response. Then he continued walking down the stairs in silence. 

After a beat, Dean followed. 

Cas turned on the coffee pot; somehow, he always remembered to fill it the night before. As the drip started, he said, “I’m sorry. I think I’ve made an inaccurate assumption about what you wanted. And about what sort of boundaries you want to have with your father. If you had suggested that my father come to live with us… well, I would have been quite displeased.”

The heartfelt apology made Dean want to laugh more than hold on to anger. So he did, and gave his husband a hug from behind, and a kiss on his neck. 

Cas’ shoulders relaxed. He smiled and said a bit nervously, “So what do you want?”

“This is fine for now,” Dean said quickly. 

“Are you sure? We can certainly talk more… I don’t want residual feelings of hurt based on me being careless with my words.”

“Cas. I trust you and know you’re lookin’ out for me. I mean, I don’t know how this could work long term. But for now, having Dad in the house makes me feel like I’m being a good son.”

“You’ve always been a good son.”

“Honestly, between the three of us, seems like you’ve been the only good son. For a long time now,” Dean retorted.

Cas gently shook his way out of Dean’s grip and turned around. “It’s easier for me to help your father. As I was saying, I can’t spend time with my father. When he was cruel to me, it lead to years of self-loathing and therapy. But John’s... crass way of talking to me is easy to overlook. And while I’m sad to see his living situation, it doesn’t hurt the same way as it would to see my own parent houseless.”

Dean huffed annoyance at Cas’ political correctness. “Lotta better ways to say that, Cas. ‘Passed out drunk in car.’ ‘Passed out drunk on park bench.’ ‘Too cantankerous for a shelter.’ ‘Forgotten by the government and the VA’ – ”

Then Cas was holding Dean, and Dean realized he was crying. Shit. He thought he was just joking around. There’s a reason they don’t talk about this. 

“That’s the pain I wanted to take away,” Cas said quietly. 

“Yeah. Well, you can’t fix everything.” Dean deflated and let himself be held for a minute. Just when it was getting too chick-flick, the coffee maker finished, and Dean pulled away to get mugs. 

“It’s hard to figure out what I want,” he said to the cupboard. “I want Dad to be a different person than he is. It’s hard to picture any other kinda scenario that actually works with reality.” 

They drank their coffee in silence, Dean resting against the counter, and Cas standing still in the center of the room. 

“I do want to go to church,” Cas said. “It’s very calming. I could use the ritual right now.”

Dean smiled and nodded.

Cas continued, “Then I’d like to take you and the kids out to lunch. We can brief them about how the week might look… then let’s talk about something else and get some peace from this.”

“How about the arcade after lunch? That’s a good distraction!”

“You’re worse than the kids. Yes, that sounds like an excellent distraction.”

* * *

When they returned from lunch, Bobby was backing the tow truck into their driveway. Dean thanked him and gave him a hard time for refusing payment. He heard the slam of the car door and roar of an engine as Bobby left, but didn't wave him off, too busy staring at the Impala. Baby, the ’67 Impala. She was looking her age- rust, a flat tire, dents, scuffs, and Dean didn’t want to look too close at her back seat. 

“Looks like a homeless person’s shopping cart,” said Dean, as Cas came to stand by him. 

“It was his home,” said Cas.

Dean couldn’t see any value in making this rather obvious point, and he prickled. “It’s a shit home.” 

“Less equipped than a hotel room, I suppose, but there’s a deeper emotional attachment,” Cas said. 

Dean wanted to shake his husband for casually talking about his life like it was just a case study in a psychotherapy file for Cas to look over at work. “It was all shit,” Dean said. “Hotel rooms, short term apartments, Bobby’s house, or sleeping in the car. Even though we never slept on the street, we were fucking homeless. You don’t need to use pretty words to describe a situation that ain’t pretty.”

Cas seemed to finally catch on to the fact he was in trouble. “I’m sorry, Dean. I try to be careful with my words, but I know that words, by themselves, are insufficient. My aim is to be respectful of your childhood, not presume to understand it.”

He stared at Dean with sad eyes and seemed so remorseful, Dean could only say, “Yeah. Sure. Well, you should.” He was mad that the morning’s fight hadn’t truly been resolved. Maybe the whole week would be like this.

Dean tired of looking at the Impala. “I don’t want to deal with the car right now,” he said and walked inside.


	2. Dean

Becky was oddly optimistic, as always, about taking shifts, helping John, and having a houseful of kids for a long sleepover. She drew up a schedule for the week that worked around everyone’s jobs.

Becky could manage weird schedules well; she ran the patient-intake desk at the hospital. She asked if John had been tested for dementia and expressed concern about him falling. “He may have a bleed on the brain.” That sounded too gross for Dean to want to ask details. 

Dean wondered if Dad would even last a week. All day and into the night, John varied between low and high haze. Even though being in his presence still made Dean a bit weak in the knees, John looked like a harmless old man. Still, Dean was grateful to add a nurse to the team Monday; it felt like battle reinforcements.

The hospice nurse was named Jess, and apparently she already knew Becky from her old position at the hospital. Becky was close to the nurses, who, she said, kept much better track of the patients than doctors did. The ladies reminisced about an elaborate prank that involved a pair of missing scrubs. Dean couldn’t quite follow the story, but he liked her friendly nature. She blended it perfectly with her professionalism and started providing the sort of comfort that seemed to come from hard-earned experience.

However, all her practical expertise seemed based around “making your dad comfortable.” 

Dean said, “I was hoping for a second opinion of whether or not all of this is even necessary. Are we really just leaving Dad to die?”

“Dean, that’s what a DNR means,” Sam reminded him.

Jess interjected, “You can choose whether or not to have me here, but John does meet the requirements for Hospice to be an option.”

When confronted with Becky’s bleed on the brain theory, she simply said that was one possibility, but she wasn’t a doctor and wasn’t going to make a diagnosis.

John acted oddly placid, going along with anything Jess wanted, including assistance in the shower (to which Dean thought, “Dirty old man,”) and wearing adult diapers – though John insisted they wouldn’t be needed, and he was only doing it to please the pretty young lady. Jess called him a charmer. Baffling. 

Jess would only come when called; Dean worried this would not be nearly enough. 

As the days went on, Dean decided that caring for the elderly is a bit like caring for a baby. He only got to care for a baby once, and just for a few weeks due to the machinations of the foster care system. (Of course, he had also changed his little brother’s diapers as a child, a story Sammy would prefer he never told again.)

Taking care of his dad in that way was less upsetting than he expected. It simply felt like another part of caregiving. Dean could deal with labor just fine; talking was the hard part. 

When Dad was hazy, Dean spoon fed him. He gave him sponge baths and moved him around the bed to avoid sores. Becky said Dean would be a good nurse. Dean preened; having someone praise him for taking good care of his dad was almost as good as having Dad praise him.

The adults continued to exclude the kids from everything to do with John. Not that they seemed particularly interested; but Dean felt discomfort in having his life spliced between normal family time and shifts with the past. 

Then Sam started talking about end-of-life planning. He tried asking Dad what he wanted done with his remains, and only got non-answers. 

“Who would come to a service?” Sam asked Dean later in the living room. “Did Dad have friends?” 

They both looked at Cas. 

“I’m not aware of any friendships in his neighborhood, but they would likely want to know. And a service isn’t just about John, you know. Your friends would want to come and support you.”

“Bobby and Ellen would come. Jo too,” conceded Sam. 

“I don’t remember Mom’s funeral,” said Dean.

They stared at each other blankly.

“Did she have one?” asked Sam. 

“A funeral can be an important part of saying goodbye. Perhaps John did not have one for her,” said Cas. “Your father held onto Mary in some unhealthy ways. We should endeavor not to repeat his errors.” 

“She has a gravestone,” said Dean. “Dad would want to be buried by her. Or have his ashes sprinkled there.”

From there, Cas promised to talk with his priest for funeral arrangements. Becky volunteered to help, and Sam would look into legal issues to see if John had any old debts or anything to deal with. “I doubt he has a will, but all he really owns is the car,” Sam said. “I’m sure I can transfer the Impala’s ownership to you pretty easy, Dean.”

Dean nodded, unsure if he should say anything. A weird mix of emotions bubbled under his skin: gratefulness, selfishness, and doubt. He had always asked for Baby, but now he wasn’t sure he wanted a living memory of the past he’d worked so hard to leave behind. 

* * *

By Wednesday, Dean thought this might not be the end after all. 

Now that Dad was as lucid (and sober) as he’d ever been, Dean remembered how hard it was to talk to him as an adult. Though perhaps it had always been hard. When he was young, talking to Dad just meant obeying orders. “Yes, Sir” and “No, Sir” were Dean’s big contributions to any conversation. 

John seemed to have exhausted his ideas for assistance requests that afternoon. He sat up in the armchair, and as his healthy sons and son-in-law gave him care, walked around freely, and towered over him. Dean sensed his dad struggling to be the boss again.

“So, you still mopping floors and teaching kids how to be fags?” John asked. 

Dean choked and shriveled up on himself. Cas and Sam jumped out of their seats. Their words blurred together.

“Dean does important work –”

“Those kids got kicked out of their homes by parents like you– ”

“Dean teaches kids kindness and respect–”

“And who the hell are you to judge mopping floors? Like you don’t know he repairs everything and keeps the place running –”

Sam was building up to something big, but Cas started to get a hold of himself and paused to check on Dean. He obviously didn’t like what he saw, so Cas offered a hand and escorted his husband out of the room. 

They went downstairs to the kitchen, and Cas pulled chocolate pudding out of a high cupboard. 

Dean made eye contact again. He’d expected orange juice. If Cas was giving out junk food, he must be extra concerned. 

They each ate pudding without talking. The silence was slightly disturbed by Sam’s muffled shouting at John. Then a stomp-stomp-stomp as Sam lumbered down the stairs and plowed into the kitchen like an angry moose. The peaceful scene there seemed to annoy him more. 

“What does it take for you to stand up for yourself?” Sam demanded. 

“What good would it do?” Dean asked. 

“It would be good for you, asshole! I know you have more self-respect than that, and how much does it hurt you to tell the truth, really?”

Dean waved his spoon sarcastically. “What truth is that? That I’m a disappointment to Dad –”

“That John was a shitty dad!” Sam yelled, gripping the counter furiously. 

Dean exhaled and stabbed at his empty pudding cup. “He did the best he could.”

“He did not do the best he could. I can’t handle you defending him. Is that what you tell kids at the shelter – that their parents were doing the best they could?”

“Samuel,” Cas interjected. “You are crossing the line.”

“Me? I’m crossing the line? Don’t you see if you let him keep on like this, he’ll just keep crawling back to the bar, just like dear old Dad –”

Castiel stood up straight and somehow managed to look down on Sam. He snapped his fingers at him, like at a dog, and pointed to the front door. “Out.”

Sam huffed, but he turned and walked away. 

Cas pulled Dean into his arms as they heard the front door slam. He whispered in his ear. “The things your brother said aren’t true. And I know he already regrets saying them. He’s dealing with his own problems, not very well at the moment, but his problems don’t need to be your problems, right?”

Dean nodded instinctively, but only after he allowed the words to sink in did he relax into the embrace. 

“I’m not going to the bar,” he said, with a bit of stubbornness.

“I know you’re not,” Cas said, pulling back and kissing Dean on the nose. 

Dean laughed and rubbed at it. “Cas. C’mon, man.” He realized he’d been crying, just a little, and rubbed his eyes too. Then he looked around to find his pudding cup. It was empty. He made sad eyes at Cas, who of course pulled out the OJ this time.

“Dean,” he said, pouring a glass. “You don’t need to confront your father if you don’t want to. But you do need to know the things he says aren’t true.”

“I know, Babe, but –”

“No. You are amazing. Every kid at the shelter knows that. Even if all you did was mop the floor and fix the appliances and vehicles, you’d be making a positive difference in the world. But you’ve chosen to do more than what you’re paid for. You are a role model; you show them what a good parent looks like. You have never chosen to be like your father; instead you’ve gotten to know the pride of standing in a father’s stead at two weddings.”

Dean blushed. “Yeah. Those were pretty great.”

“And far too many high school graduations. Long, tedious graduations…” 

“Hey. I love graduations.” (And GED parties were just as important, Dean made sure.)

“And those kids talk to you. They are more vulnerable with you than they are with me and the other licensed therapists.” 

“Aw. I just listen. You’re the one with the smart advice.”

Cas gave a last squeeze and release. “We all have a role to play, but you always do yours with heart. That’s why I love you.”

Dean was drowning in praise, so he hid behind finishing his orange juice. 

“I’m going to check on your father if that’s alright,” Cas said. Dean nodded. “He’ll probably be ready to go back to bed. Then we could do something relaxing, like watching a movie?”

Dean shook his head. “I’m gettin’ kinda claustrophobic in here, actually. I’d rather do some work with my hands at the shelter. Just a couple hours, maybe?”

Cas tilted his head to one side, like he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea or not. After a moment he said, “Maybe bring someone along? I could get Becky to watch John.” 

Dean didn’t want a baby-sitter, so he suggested their oldest son instead. “How about I pick up Kevin and bring him? He wanted to do some more tutoring for community service hours.” 

It was also a good way for Dean to cry on the director’s shoulder about his feelings, but he wasn’t going to say that out loud. 

“Good idea. Call me if you need anything. Don’t stay too… anyway, I love you.”

* * *

Sam was at the door, right at 8:00 am in the morning for his next John shift. The brothers avoided eye contact for a moment during awkward offerings of coffee. 

Then Sam said, “I’m sorry about yesterday. I went too far.”

Dean wondered how far Sam thought that personal insults should go. 

“It just drives me up a wall, seeing you revert back to Dad’s obedient soldier. I know that’s not you anymore. It’s like a personality flip, I dunno, Cas probably has a name for it. But I shouldn’t be mad at you. I’m mad at Dad. Always have been, I guess. And I don’t get why you don’t feel how I feel. Don’t you feel mad?” Sam stared at him expectantly. 

Dean tried to think of something wise and Cas-like to say. He felt a little naked without his husband, and had an irrational suspicion that Sam had planned it that way. He tried to shake it off. 

“It just feels wrong not to tell Dad what he was doing was wrong, right? And you do think he was doing it wrong, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“And his life is still a disaster, but you’ve worked really hard, and most of the time you aren’t like Dad at all.” 

Dean was totally silent. He couldn’t even lift his coffee cup to drink. Be brave, he told himself. “When am I like Dad?”

“I mean, not in parenting. Mostly the drinking.”

“I haven’t had a drink in two years.” 

Sam’s annoyed face quickly overtook his surprised face. “How I am supposed to know that? You don’t talk about it. You don’t collect your AA chips.”

“I’ve told you about that.” Dean stared in his coffee. “I don’t like the chips. They stress me out; it feels like extra pressure. Different people respond to different rewards,” he said, repeating the words of his sponsor. 

“Okay, fine. You know, I didn’t come here to fight. Feels like you’re turning this around on me, even though I was the one defending you.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said quickly. He saw an excuse to escape. “Looks like Cas is back with groceries. I’m gonna go help him, so how ‘bout you go check on Dad?” 

* * *

Dean went to help Cas in the kitchen. He took a moment to shake off the frustrating conversation with Sam and place a smile on his face. 

“Oh, I hope we’re making omelettes,” said Dean, watching Cas unload groceries. Cas smiled and handed Dean the eggs and a bowl. Dean started cracking. While his back was turned, Dean asked, “Hey Cas, is there a psychological thing for acting like a kid around your parents? When you’re a grown-up? That’s what Sam thinks I’m doing. Am I?”

Cas washed peppers in the sink. “Sam is projecting, as he’s reverting to old pattern behaviors himself… From your descriptions, he and your father spent a lot of time yelling during his adolescence, without ever resolving any issues. I’m not proud that yelling was my first response either.”

Dean laughed. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one. “But, c’mon, Cas, you didn’t answer the question.”

“Do you think you’re reverting to old behavior patterns?” asked Cas.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Look Counselor, if you start therapisting me right now, I’m gonna take away your fainting couch and you’ll have to meet clients on the floor.”

“I don’t have a fainting couch. Also, you chose the subject.”

“Alright,” Dean sighed. He answered pop quiz fast. “Literally running away from problems, check. Wanting to drink, not standing up to Dad, letting him ‘n Sammy walk all over me… check check. What am I missing?”

Cas shook his head. “The first one could be a cause for concern, but you came back fairly quickly, instead of leaving for days...” He stared at the peppers without chopping. Dean thought miserably of the times he’d gone on a bender while Cas was left home worrying. But Cas continued, as he added the onions to his veggie stack. “You wanted to drink, but you didn’t. You asked for help. That’s the important thing. It’s acceptable if you need extra care right now. It would be hard for anyone to respond to in a positive way to a hateful and triggering comment like your father’s.”

Dean was trying to work out if that meant he was doing okay or not, but Cas started talking about John instead. 

“I’m not sure if it’s helpful, but I had one more idea on your father…” Cas paused from cooking. “You worry about him being proud of you, but I wonder if he has the same fears. He may be ashamed, in part, because he knows you aren’t proud of him.”

“What?” Dean struggled. “Well, that’s – huh. I’m not… I’m not not proud of him. I mean, I feel…”

“It also crossed my mind that shame was a major factor in not wanting to meet his grandchildren, rather than a genuine judgment of our families. I can’t say for sure, of course, but my inclination is to believe that his attacks are primarily a way to deflect attention from himself.”

“Oh. Then it worked on me.” Dean took a deep breath and relaxed the tension in his shoulders. “Is this something I should talk to him about?” 

“As usual, it’s your choice. I simply hoped that having a different interpretation of his actions could give you some freedom from believing untrue and unfair things about yourself.” Cas poured the eggs in a fry pan, acting like he wasn’t unraveling Dean’s worldview. 

* * *

Dean was not eager to give his dad a chance for more insults, but he didn’t want to avoid the man either. He took his shifts. John, at first perhaps, was too abashed to insult his son again. But Dean felt himself being watched in a way that made him uncomfortable. Like a predator was seeking out his weakness.

Dean started planning a defense in his head. Surely, he met most of his father’s expectations if he could just frame it right. Dean provided for his family. Okay, yes with a partner, but most straight guys had working partners too. He owned a house and kept it fixed up. He taught his daughter self-defense. (Also his sons, but he wouldn’t mention that.) His younger son Jack might be interested in sports. As long as it wasn’t violent. Maybe tennis? No, Dean shouldn’t mention tennis to John. (But he really should mention tennis to Jack.)

Okay, he didn’t work a job that had much room for promotions or personal glory. But, he was helping to make the center bigger and better. And John always respected a man who worked with his hands more than an office drone anyway. He wished John were mobile so he could take his dad to work and point out what he’d kept running, and what he’d built. 

If all else failed, they could talk about all the cars Dean maintained. 

On Saturday afternoon, Cas had an emergency counseling session with one of his clients. (Dean couldn’t really wrap his mind around how rich guys had any problems, but he was glad they did. It paid enough for Cas to volunteer his counseling skills at the shelter part time.)

John waited until he and Dean were alone and started to grouse about not getting to leave the room. 

“Not a lot to see upstairs, Dad,” said Dean, flipping through his car magazine. “If we want to go downstairs, we’ll need a bigger team effort.”

“Sure, I can’t rely on you, considering how out of shape you’ve gotten.”

Dean flushed, annoyed at his dad’s ability to pack two insults in one comment. “I’m all you’ve got at the moment. Sorry for the tough luck.”

“God, you’re such a pushover. I always figured Castiel was the woman in the relationship, but I forgot you got your balls removed after you left.”

Dean clenched his hands, crinkling his magazine. He made eye contact with his dad and noticed John’s small smirk. Dean imagined it was a dare -- Do it. Be a man, not a weak woman. He stared and didn’t speak. 

John had been calling Dean girly his whole life (along with much crueler words, as John had intuited Dean’s sexual orientation from a young age). But leaving Dad and his narrow views had given Dean the chance to know women well enough that the insult didn’t make sense anymore. He’d met women like Missouri, who ran the teen shelter with wisdom and discernment. Women like Becky, who mothered special needs kids. Women like Sheriff Mills, who found help for street kids with kindness rather than arresting them. Dean grew up believing femininity meant weakness... but it was bullshit.

Enough time passed that John’s smile faded. They both blinked at some point and broke the stare. Dean gave himself a moment of peace. He felt an unfamiliar sense of freedom. 

Then he changed the subject. “Wanna hear a good article about Cadillac’s new direction?” Dean asked.

“Cadillac? Let me tell you about the problem with Cadillac…” John started. 

Dean listened without contributing and let his dad feel in charge a little longer. John lectured, then meandered to other subjects, then finally fell asleep. 

Dean was happy to be relieved by Cas and gave him a short update. “He tried to start a fight again, but it wasn’t like last time. Just made fun of my dad bod.”

“I like your dad bod,” said Cas, naturally.

Dean laughed, surprised to feel relaxed talking about his dad. “I’m not sure what counts as a win here,” he said. 

“A win?” said Cas.

“Right, I know that’s not the right way to think about a conversation. But it feels like that with Dad. Like, he won points for insulting me, but I got points for not getting offended… I changed the subject, which, honestly, is how I would distract Sammy when he was a little kid, so that feels weird… then Dad just talked a lot, so that lets him feel like he wins. ‘Cause of having the most air time, ya know? I still avoided talking about the tough stuff. Sam wants me to stand up for myself. And Dad says I’m a pushover. Maybe they’d be happier if we’d yell and punch each other. But if I did, he’d just find a way to get more points there, so why give him the opportunity?”

Cas nodded. “If that is how John views the interaction, I suspect everyone loses in the end. I understand how having limited options must be frustrating, but I’m proud of you for staying calm and doing your best with a bad situation.” 

“If Dad…” Dean paused to breathe slowly. “If Dad would give me just the smallest hint that we could have a real conversation, I’d take it. But I don’t think I can be the one to make it happen.”

* * *

John’s condition worsened. The next two days, his sleeping schedule involved staying awake for 20 minute stretches, then sleeping for several hours. He was losing all sense of night and day, and whoever was on night shift had to wake up every time and tend to his bathroom needs. 

Sam and Dean had a small fight about giving their dad better pain pills, or maybe sleeping pills, or anti-anxiety meds. Everyone was tired. Sam said they couldn’t keep taking care of Dad in shifts like this, and Dean said he could. They finally dragged Becky into it, and she got Nurse Jess to pick better drugs and bring a catheter. 

Dean held John’s hand to prepare for the catheter, an unprecedented position. He couldn’t remember ever holding hands, even as a child. 

John seemed barely aware of anything. His eyes fluttered and he moaned with pain as Jess inserted the catheter, but he didn’t fight back. Dean avoided watching. Maybe it was too late to preserve John’s privacy, as Dean had already changed his diaper. But it seemed there was always one more piece of dignity that could be removed.

After she left, and Sam and Becky left, and Dean was sitting alone with his dad, he thought, this is real. He is dying. 

Cas came in with cappuccinos like the angel he was. They sat together on the cot. 

Dean had been trying not to think about his mom’s death. Sammy didn’t even remember her, but Dean did. He had a vague childish belief that she was an angel watching over him… but it wasn’t the sort of thing he could say out loud. Examined, it would shrivel up in the sun. And he certainly couldn’t apply such a view to Dad. He knew him too well. Cas seemed to believe most everyone would go to heaven, a place Dean couldn’t picture at all. And he certainly couldn’t imagine John Winchester feeling at home there. 

“Maybe Dad’s going to hell,” said Dean suddenly. He had a bad feeling that he was just trying to provoke Cas or even start a fight. But it felt easier than talking about something silly, like angels. 

Cas was slow and careful to respond, probably sensing a trap in Dean’s declaration. “I feel like your father has already been through hell. I hope that, if given a new opportunity, or a clearer perspective, he would take the advantage to escape.”

“You think people choose to go to heaven or hell?” Dean said peevishly. 

“I don’t know.” Cas paused. Long enough that Dean wondered if he should speak up. “My family was obsessed with the afterlife,” said Cas finally. His voice got a bit flat, like it usually did on the subject. “I suppose there are ways in which learning about eternity would be good, but they chose the unhealthy approach to such a fixation. They thought only Heaven mattered and decided things on earth didn’t, whether it was suffering or kindness… or simply appreciation for beauty. So, I’ve tried a different goal, to bring heaven to earth rather than merely waiting for it after death. But I don’t know what awaits us in the afterlife. I choose to have hope despite my lack of understanding. I trust that God is in control.”

Dean was quiet again. Maybe that’s how he felt about his mom, a little, but it sounded smarter when Cas said it. 

Cas was fiddling on his phone and asked if he could read some scripture for John.

“Yeah. Do it.” Dean felt a little smug; if Dad were cognizant, he’d probably hate it. 

“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and God will dwell with them. They will be God’s people, and God will be with them and be their God. God will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

Aw shit, Cas really was wiping tears from Dean’s eyes. 

“A man named John wrote this passage,” Cas remarked, as he readjusted to pull Dean in closer on the cot. “He was incarcerated at the time.”

“Huh, maybe he and Dad would get along.” Dean wiped his face with his sleeve. “I’m crying too much this week.” And before his husband could open his mouth, Dean added quickly, “Yes, I know an aversion to crying is just a manifestation of toxic masculinity! I don’t need reminded.”

Cas chuckled. 

Dean sighed happily. He remembered worrying that he was going to spend every day fighting with Cas about his dad and was glad it hadn’t happened. He’d still like a break from crying… but it was, as usual, better than the alternative life of his dad. He’d never seen John cry. 

“I wish Dad coulda known that,” Dean said. “I should have done… something. I don’t know.”

“Sometimes it’s hard, even in retrospect, to determine what we ‘should’ have done,” said Cas. “But I want to reassure you that you were a good son.” 

That was enough peace, for now.


	3. Ending

“Dad didn’t wake up all night,” Sam reported when Dean came to replace him on Tuesday morning.

“Good,” said Dean, glancing over at his sleeping father. 

“I mean, at all…” said Sam. “ He didn’t wake up for dinner last night. So he’s been sleeping for over 12 hours.”

“Oh,” said Dean. They were both silent for a minute. 

“Is that a coma?” said Dean eventually. “I always think of comas happening to people hooked up to machines. But I guess that’s not the, uh, major part of it.”

“I just texted Jess, but she hasn’t responded yet,” Sam said numbly. “It feels wrong not to do anything.”

“It’s the part of the coma after you unplug the machines,” Dean said, suddenly realizing. “People don’t always die right when it happens. You have to wait.”

“That sounds horrible,” said Sam. 

“This isn’t so great either.”

“But if he doesn’t wake up, then it’s over already. He said his last word. We had our last fight.” Sam’s eyebrows crinkled together. He inhaled quickly. 

Was Sammy going to cry? Over Dad? Dean rubbed his brother’s shoulder while he stared out the window. 

“This didn’t help at all,” Sam said suddenly. “It would have been the same if Cas just found Dad’s dead body last week.” He exhaled short puffs of air that were almost sobs. 

As Sam’s fourth huff turned into real crying, Dean gave in and embraced his brother. Sam hugged back, and even bent to lay his head on Dean’s shoulder. 

“Thanks for bringing him here, Sam,” Dean said quietly. “I’m glad he’s dying in a home. Maybe he’ll never say thank you, but I’m grateful. I’m glad he’s not alone.”

After a few minutes, Sam cleared his throat like he hadn’t been crying and rubbed his sleeve across his face. “Dad chose being alone,” he said sharply. Then he left without giving Dean a chance to respond. 

Dean sat in silence for a moment, trying not to think about how he would have reacted if John had been dead instead of dying, until Cas joined him, bringing breakfast tray that sat ignored on the dresser. 

“I think Sam finally cracked,” Dean said. “He cried. Over Dad. After, like, 10 days of being angry.”

Cas fussed with John’s blankets. “It’s hard to sustain anger that long. It isn’t the strongest emotion,” he said. Then he sat down next to Dean. “It seems powerful, but it’s not enough to get you where you need to go.”

Dean pondered. “I wanna say that sounds profound, but I don’t really get it.”

“Personally, anger helped me leave a bad family situation. But that was just a beginning. Making a new life and building a family with you took so much more. Love, forgiveness, perseverance, patience… Anger can knock down a wall but not build a home.”

Dean smiled. He always liked building metaphors. 

Cas said, “Sam’s been angry for a long time. Letting go will leave a hole behind. He has to choose to fill up that hole with something good.”

Dean snickered, and Cas looked over at him. 

“Sorry, I was gonna make a dirty joke,” said Dean. “I’m torn between telling you that straight guys aren’t into that, or asking if you had something good to fill up my – ”

“Yes, alright!” Cas stopped Dean, laughing with a bright red face and glancing over at John sleeping. “I would usually say that making immature jokes is your way of deflecting, but in this circumstance, I think perhaps you are feeling better?”

Dean smiled and started to eat his breakfast, relieved and smug at the same time. 

* * *

The next morning, Becky was concerned when John’s breathing changed. She woke Dean and Sam at 5:30 am. 

“Cheyne-stokes respiration. It’s a kind of sleep apnea,” she said. Dean was always a little startled when Becky said something smart. Her usual silly personality came across as a bit... uninformed, but obviously she spent real quality time learning at the hospital, not just doing paperwork. Maybe Dean didn’t like it when she was smart because normally she felt like an ally against their college-educated and sometimes snooty husbands.

Or maybe analyzing Becky was just a nice distraction from Dad’s horror-movie breathing. 

“On an engine, we call that a death-rattle,” said Dean. 

“Same expression for people, Dean,” said Sam.

Oh. Dean did not know that. So he listened. John breathed in – a rattling breath – then was silent. A few seconds in, Dean wondered if he should be timing it. Then John breathed again. Dean started thinking each breath might be Dad’s last, and if he wasn’t being serious enough. He shouldn’t be comparing Dad to a car.

“Maybe we should call Adam,” said Becky.

The brothers exchanged a look at the mention of their estranged sibling. Dean again felt guilty. 

“Should we?” said Sam. “I don’t think Adam has talked to Dad in years…”

“He hasn’t talked to us in years,” Dean pointed out. 

Becky shrugged. “If it were me, I’d want to know. He can choose what he wants to do with it.”

“Yeah, do it,” said Dean huskily. He didn’t want to overthink it. 

Sam sighed and pulled out his cell phone. “I doubt he’ll pick up. It’s after 8:00 a.m. his time; I suppose he’s at work…”

They waited, listening to the phone ring, and to John’s broken breathing. 

“Adam?” Sam’s eyes widened like he hadn’t actually wanted him to pick up. “Hey. Yeah. It’s Sam? Sam Winchester? Oh, you know. Right.” Sam cleared his throat. “I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything… yes, something is wrong. It’s Dad. Er, no, he isn’t dead. Yet.” Sam groaned. “Here, I should have Becky explain.”

Sam tossed the phone to his wife like a hot potato. Becky looked unimpressed. She switched on speaker phone and held it between the three of them. 

“Hi, Adam, it’s so nice of you to chat with us,” Becky said. 

“It’s been awhile,” Adam said generically. 

“Yes, so sorry to call with bad news. Your dad isn’t doing very well. He’s been in bed for over a week at Dean’s house, and he may not last much longer. We wanted to let you know – and if you wanted to say goodbye, this is probably a good time. But, no pressure!” She squeaked a little at the end. 

“Wow, that’s tough. I’m sorry, guys,” Adam said. Dean and Sam nodded as if he could see them. “Should I say bye on the phone? Um, do you want me to come in person?” His voice cracked a little too, reminding Dean of the pre-teen Adam he’d barely known (though he’d at least known more than Adam the man). 

“You don’t have to come,” said Sam. 

At the same time, Dean said, “Dad’s not up to seeing visitors, really.” 

They both paused awkwardly. 

“Maybe over the phone is best,” said Becky. “John’s not able to respond now, but he might be able to hear you.”

“Alright.” Adam was quiet. Becky held the phone up to John’s ear and told him to go ahead. 

“Hey, Dad,” said Adam. “I uh… I hope you get better. Hang in there.” He stopped, and Dean thought how ridiculous it was to ask anyone to say goodbye, even if it was to family they didn’t like. “Thanks, um. Thanks for the times you visited me when I was a kid. I wished it was more, but uh, it was something.” Adam was quiet again. Dean’s insides burned, thinking how hard it was to say something nice about Dad. 

“Goodbye, Dad,” said Adam finally.

“Thank you, Adam, that’s really sweet of you,” said Becky. 

“Thanks for calling me. Um, keep me updated? And if there’s a funeral. I’ll come, ‘kay?” 

“We will, Adam,” said Sam. 

“Yeah. It’d be good to see you guys. Oh, and congrats, Dean, on your adoption going through. Sorry, I guess that was a year ago. Castiel sends me pictures of the kids in his Christmas card, y’know.”

Dean smiled. “Thanks, man, we’re real grateful. Look forward to you meeting all the kids.”

“Yeah. Okay. I should probably get back to work. Talk to you later.”

Everyone said brief goodbyes and hung up. 

“That was good,” said Becky.

“I was surprised,” Sam admitted. 

“I wonder if he’ll bring anyone to the funeral. Do you think he has a family?” Becky asked. 

“I dunno,” said Dean. “We only met his mom the one time. I wasn’t sure if he got Cas’ letters either.”

“Maybe this will be the start of something new,” said Becky cheerfully. 

But Dean couldn’t think of a response. He just listened to his dad’s aborted breathing and felt dread. 

* * *

Dean found, to his surprise, he’d fallen asleep in the armchair again. Sam was pacing the room like a giant cartoon character, and looked at his watch twice like he’d forgotten to read it the first time. Then he noticed Dean was stirring. 

“Should I go?” asked Sam.

“Take a seat,” said Dean. He was feeling an odd mental clarity. “I don’t like how we’ve left things this week.” 

Sam plopped on the cot. He looked guilty. 

“I can’t tell if you want to defend me or attack me,” Dean began slowly. “When we were kids--” 

“Oh, god. What did I say about that? I didn’t mean…” Sam ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t mean to be critical about that time. I know back then, when I back-talked Dad, he always took it out on you. I should have listened to you instead of running my mouth. I regret that.” 

Sam’s enormous puppy dog eyes distracted Dean from whatever point he’d been trying to make (though he hoped it had been something about Maslov’s hierarchy of needs that would have impressed his college-nerd brother).

“Look. I wish I could get mad at Dad for you. But when I think about that childhood shit, I just feel empty. That’s why I try to fill it up with booze or whatever. Which is stupid, ‘cause that’s what Dad does, and I know that messed him up more… but it’s always been hard for me to feel my feelings.” (Oh god, I do sound like Cas, he thought.) “Shutting off is a hard habit to break, anyway,” Dean said, trying to wrap it up. “It worked when we were kids; it got the job done, y’know?”

Sam stayed silent, and Dean took the hint that his brother was trying to let him talk more. “I wish I’d done a better job taking care of you, but I was still a kid too, and I didn’t know any better. At the time it made sense to lie and cover up Dad’s shortcomings. Doesn’t mean I thought it was right. But back then, I thought us going to foster care and getting split up was the worst possible thing that could happen. And maybe it woulda been, hard to say – but then again, maybe we would have ended up in one of the homes like we’re trying to make for our kids. So I’m sorry we missed out on that.”

Dean sat with knees wide, hands dangling between, looking at his feet. Okay, one last bit. He looked up. “When I see Dad now, I still have regrets. I wish I coulda saved him. I feel selfish that my life is so good, and he’s still living in the Impala.” He paused and squeezed his temples. “All week you’ve been so mad. I don’t feel mad; I feel pity for him. And I hate that, ‘cause I know he wouldn’t want it. And I do still wish Dad would be proud of me. I know it’s a stupid thing to want, and I’m never gonna get it.” Dean chuckled. “I ‘spose you wouldn’t care about something like that.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “I do care about something like that. Not from Dad, but from you. If you weren’t proud of me… God, I don’t know. It would eat me up. You’re the one who really raised me and taught me how to be a good dad to my kids.”

Oh god, now Sammy was crying (and apologizing more). Dean stood and walked over to give Sam a hug, and hold his giant little brother as if that were even a plausible fit anymore. Thinking about how silly they must look cheered him up for a moment, but then he started remembering the days when he’d held a crying scrawny half-pint Sammy, and well, there were those goddamn tears anyway.

* * *

That night, Jess came by and gave John liquid morphine drops in his mouth. Dean tried giving him water drops too, but he knew it couldn’t be making much difference. John’s urine bag grew dark.

Cas had prayed for John a few times, but Dean preferred not to stay in the room for religious stuff. Now it seemed like he should. He tried not to think of whether or not the prayers made sense, and just enjoy his husband’s calm deep voice. Cas sang old hymns as well. One sounded both familiar and strange.

Though we have sinned God has mercy and pardon  
Pardon for you and for me.  
Earnestly, tenderly Jesus is calling  
Calling, "O sinner come home"

Dean chuckled. He sort of liked the idea of Jesus trying to talk Dad into something he ought to do. Dean didn’t know any hymns (maybe a line of Amazing Grace?) so when Cas finished, Dean sang one of his favorite rock ballads. 

Forget your lust for rich man’s gold.   
All that you need is in your soul.  
And be a simple kind of man  
Oh, be something you love and understand

Dean choked up and trailed off. He looked back at Cas. They huddled together on the single seat beside the bed. 

The men drifted in and out of sleep all night, moving from the chair to the cot to sitting on John’s bed. Dean continued holding his dad’s hand, as strange as it felt, but he wanted so badly for Dad to know he wasn’t alone. 

At 6:30 am, Dean figured Sam would be awake to receive a brief update: “Still breathing.” But by 7:15, that was no longer true. 

Time zipped by as Sam and Becky hurried over, and Jess promised to be on her way soon. 

Dean escaped, dragging Cas back to their bedroom. Once he was tightly held, Dean fell asleep for another two hours. When he awoke, Jess and another hospice nurse were tending to the body. 

John looked utterly empty. His eyes were closed but looked wet and matted. His mouth hung open like Jacob Marley. Jess had laid him out flat on his back, facing upward. Dean realized his dad hadn’t been in that position in days. He was always curled up on his side, fetal style. 

Jess asked Dean if he wanted a picture. “What? No.” Who did that, really? But minutes later, he thought, when is the last time I had a picture of Dad? So he sheepishly took one anyway, telling himself he could always delete it later if it proved to be too grim. 

The funeral director arrived at 10:30 and briefly consulted the sons. He complimented them on not fighting about their dad’s arrangements; a strange thing to say that left Dean wondering how stressful his job must be. 

The director loaded John into a body bag, like a crime victim. Dean felt his chest constrict as he thought, oh god, this is the last I’ll ever see him. 

Sam helped the director lift the bag (Dad) onto the gurney and roll him out and downstairs. Dean followed them, keeping his distance. 

Dad rolling down the sidewalk, where everyone could see. Dad in the hearse. Dad being driven away. 

The Impala sat in the driveway, where Dean had been avoiding it this whole time. But suddenly it seemed important. He opened the passenger door, and some trash fell to the ground. The whole backseat was crammed full of… stuff. Dean started pulling everything out and making piles. 

Trash: old fast food containers, Taco Bell sauce packets, ketchup packets. Recycling: water bottles and beer cans. Donations: old clothes, shoes. Becky brought out trash bags and boxes for him at some point. 

Dean was wondering if any of it was worth keeping when he flipped the sun visor, and pictures of the kids fell out. Dean froze, staring at the photos scattered on the dirty seat. Then he grabbed them quickly, like someone else might get them first. There were at least 20 photos, but it seemed like an incomplete mix of school photos, snapshots, and one family Christmas photo from three years ago. Dean wondered how many photos Cas had given John, and why those had been the ones saved. 

He stopped working and brought the photos in to Cas, who was cleaning the kitchen. The men spread the photos out across the counter and looked together. Dean hadn’t seen one of Krissy in braces for a while… and he felt like Jack looked happier now than when he’d first joined the family. 

“I didn’t know he kept them,” said Cas. 

“He also kept five McDonalds bags,” said Dean.

“Still. Maybe,” said Cas. 

Maybe. It was unsettling, and he couldn’t ask Dad now. Had he looked at the photos often? Did he wish he could meet his grandkids? Would he have been proud of Dean and thought he was a good dad?

“There’s one more.” Dean handed Cas a rumply photo with a family of four: John, Mary, Dean, and baby Sammy. Cas smiled, and it gave Dean a bit of courage. “I think Kevin knows how to clean up old photos on the computer. He could make a new one… just for the fridge, not like the mantel or anything! It would be nice to have something.” 

Dean left the photos inside and returned to the car. He didn’t save anything else. Though he’d hoped to find the old tape collection, it was gone. Dean hummed all the old tunes anyway as he washed the car, vacuumed her, and scrubbed down odd messes and sticky patches. At one point he was able to say, “Hey, Baby. It’s good to see you again.”

Then he finally opened the hood. He was scanning the situation inside when Sam showed up.

“Dean.” Sam displayed a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “It’s after 1:00. Cas wants you to have lunch.”

Dean accepted the plate as his brother snatched a sandwich and pulled out a lawn chair that Dean had been stacking tools on. 

“I can’t believe Dad let the Impala get this bad,” said Sam, his eyes roving across her side. “He used to yell if I opened the door too quickly in a parking lot. Couldn’t get a single scratch, you know?”

Dean wanted to restore Baby to exactly that level of niceness. He paused, reminding his future self not to yell at the kids for scratching his Baby. 

Dean pulled up his own seat and settled down. “I guess after Bobby kicked him out for the last time, he gave up on keeping her pretty. No more garage, no more tools.”

“I don’t remember Bobby kicking Dad out.” Sam bit into his sandwich. “It’s hard to remember them being friends at all.” 

“How do you not remember that day? There was a shotgun involved!” Dean laughed. Then he sighed. “Bobby said Dad better not ever ask him for help again.”

“Help? Dad never asked for help.” Sam clenched the bread tightly. “He was a prideful man who burned bridges every chance he got. No wonder he ended up homeless and alone.”

“Maybe that was the last time he asked for help. I dunno. But I don’t think you remember right. I’m not saying Dad wasn’t a proud sonofabitch when we were kids, ‘cause he was. But he absolutely asked for help. Alcoholism treatment and whatever it was they tried to do for PTSD in the 80’s. Though I’m not sure they called it that then.” Dean paused to work on his lunch and sort out his thoughts. “But nothing helped, least not in a long term kinda way. And I get that. You know my relationship with AA has been pretty rocky, even when I’m doing okay. It’s never been a great fit for me. Maybe Dad never found his place at all. I’m mad that he gave up. But he did fight for a long time.” 

It seemed stupid, but until Dean said it out loud, he wasn’t sure he’d really believed it. His chest relaxed; he felt forgiveness toward his dad. 

Sam seemed too surprised to respond. “You’re right. I don’t remember that. But I wish he could have got the help he needed, back before things got this bad.”

“Hey, I’m no saint either. That’s why I hang out with kids instead of grown-ups. It’s easier.”

“Only you would call working with homeless teens easy.” Sam groaned. 

“Sure, the hormone overdose is rough.” Dean laughed. “But teens are great, man. They’re just trying to figure out who they are and what to do in life. Everything is constantly changing for them. They aren’t set in their ways yet. I know Cas says anyone can be saved... but it’s sure easier when they’re young.”

The brothers each grabbed a second sandwich. 

“Am I too set in my ways, Dean?” Sam asked, his voice low and vulnerable. 

“I’m not gonna diagnose you. Drag Cas out here if you want that.”

“Don’t hide behind Cas.”

“I’m not -- I’m sorry.” Dean fiddled with a crumbley corner of the homemade bread. “In some ways, sure, we both get stuck. We’re not young. So it takes a bit more to shake us up. But these last weeks, at least we talked about the stuff we never talk about. And I’m gonna talk to the kids about Dad too,” he vowed. 

Dean brushed the crumbs off his hands and picked up his ratchet. “I never got Dad’s approval, not really. Even though I’ve known he’s not the right role model or whatever, I still held on to that.” As he ran his fingers across the Impala, he again saw a vision of himself yelling at his kids for scratching the car. He made a sudden decision.

“After I fix up Baby, I’m gonna sell her.”

Sam’s eyebrows couldn’t have been higher. 

“She’ll be worth something, when she’s in shape again. I could give the money to Cas’ church group for their visits to Dad’s old neighbors. It’ll go to something good.” Dean felt a huge grin spread across his face.

“You don’t want Baby?” said Sam slowly, two steps behind.

“It’s not that. I want to fix her up and let her go. Krissy can help me. I’ll make it her summer vacation job. We’ve got a few weeks left.” Dean thought fondly of showing his daughter how to repaint Baby. Krissy already knew oil changes and the other easy stuff. 

“Alright.” Sam still looked startled, but he laid down his sandwich half-eaten. He finally smiled. “I’m glad you have a plan, Dean. It sounds good.”

Sam must have left soon after that. Dean changed the oil and spark plugs, refilled the radiator and even the window washer fluid. He made notes on a couple other parts he’d need to replace, then started examining Baby for rust spots to grind down. 

As the sun was setting, he stood up straight and stretched out his tight joints. Before going inside, he looked at the photo of his om again. Then he tucked it safely inside his wallet. Dean let himself have one remaining childlike hope that there was still an angel offering John a hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [ hungrytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungrytiger/pseuds/hungrytiger) for being my beta editor!


End file.
